


Rigor Mortis

by orphan_account



Series: Homestuck Drone Season 2014 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, Black Romance, Blood, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Choking, Death, God Tier, M/M, Temporary Character Death, canon typical ableist language, death kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave and Karkat's awkward pitch flirtation finally turns into something tangible when Dave's kink for dying comes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rigor Mortis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellesra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellesra/gifts).



> _Dave has a major deathkink. So he makes character of your choice kill him. Being immortal, he is able to do it more than once._
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> _Probably a plus if the other character actually enjoys killing him._
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> _Also +++ if he's not superuke!Dave, but rather closer to switch or so._
> 
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> \- Ellesra's Drone Season prompt

Dave really should know by now not to fucking egg you on, but from all your interactions with him it’s become clear that he’s physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Lately, he’s been almost as bad when it comes to keeping his hands off of you, seizing upon any excuse to turn a verbal disagreement into a tussle. He never quite starts it himself, resorting to arguably innocuous gestures like grabbing your pen or sliding in the chair you were about to sit in, or sometimes just verbally goading you until you snap and push him away.

Despite all the caliginous tension between you two, the first time you draw blood is completely an accident. An extended argument about your wardrobe choices turns into an impromptu wrestling match, ending abruptly when your elbow clumsily collides with his nose.

You pull away immediately, rubbing your elbow and barking that he should watch out (even though he was the one hurt, not you), but not because of the small part of you that’s horrified that you actually hurt him. No, any such pity is well overshadowed by your sadistic glee; he picked a fight and for once he’s suffering the consequences. You recoiling has a much more selfish motive. Because as much as you know you shouldn’t, because he’s human and doesn’t understand black romance, you have just discovered beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're turned on by seeing him in pain.

You hope that you pulled back fast enough that he doesn’t notice how your face is flushed – or how your bulge has thickened noticeably in your pants. As you watch him wipe away the crimson stream flowing from his nose, you're an uncomfortable combination of aroused and sickened. In a way, it’d be easier if it was more the latter than the former, but you have no such luck.

Your heart pounds as you clutch your arm, glaring pointedly at him like he’s the one who fucked up rather than the one who just got hurt. It’s not fair, but it’s also not fair that you’re turned on by him, so fuck fair.

"Nice job," Dave drawls as he pulls himself to his feet and adjusts his shades. He pauses to wipe one hand across his upper lip, then glances down at the blood now smeared all over his hand as well as his face. “You’ve got some great hand-eye coordination going on there. Really watching where you put your flailing limbs when you get excited, aren’t you?”

"I was not _flailing_.” You take a step backwards without even thinking about it, reflexively defensive. “You should watch where you put your face!"

"I wasn't the one throwing the body part in question around like a toddler throwing a tantrum." Dave takes a few steps back on his own before sinking into a chair with coordination that you envy. He slumps into it as he talks, blood continuing to drip down, sharp red against his pale skin, as he speaks. "Someone's gonna get actually hurt if you throw your elbows around like kids slinging tater tots in a food fight. Not me, obviously, because I’m a god and all that shit, but you’re getting into bad habits."

"I don’t fight with anyone except for you -" 

"Bullshit."

"I don't get into _physical_ fights with anyone except you, because no one else purposefully antagonizes me like you do.” You scowl at the smug, probably-allegedly- _ironic_ half-grin he shoots you. “The elbow wasn't on purpose! Go get your stupid ecto-sister to patch you up."

"Nah, like I said, I’m a god. I’ll be fine. I'm more worried about you." You continue to glare at him as he shrugs. He reaches up to pinch his bleeding nose, and your eyes follow his fingertips up as he raises his hand, lingering for a moment on his lips (which are so pink, and soft-looking, and why the fuck are you attracted to his _lips_?). The pinching of his nose interferes with the smirk you know he'd be shooting you if he could. “I could just off myself and start with a fresh new Dave if I wanted to. Actually I should just make you do it. You break it, you buy it. Fracture the egg shell, might as well crack the whole thing. It ain't gonna repair itself, so help it live up to its delicious potential as an omelette now."

"Given how delicate you are when we fight, I can't imagine you could handle dying."

"Speak for yourself. I've died infinitely more times than you."

"Only because you're god tier and I'm not, you assclown!"

"Point is, I'm an expert at dying compared to you. I bet you're the one who couldn't handle killing me. Too chicken to just put your hands around my throat and snap my neck? Get that morbidly gay sickle of yours and slit my throat? Nah, even this amount of blood is freaking you out; you couldn't handle that."

"No, you're batshit, and fuck you. Does that cover all our bases? Good."

It's a weak comeback; you think up a dozen better exiting quips as you flee to your block, mentally kicking yourself for each and every one you could have used instead. But if you hadn't left when you did, Dave might've goaded you into actually doing it. And even if the sicko meant it, there's no way you could have killed him without him noticing your erection, which had taken even more interest in the proposed course of action than the fighting itself.

The thought of hurting one's kismesis was a completely normal turn-on. Killing them was not. And worse, Dave most likely didn't even view this as kismesissitude. He's a goddamn human. You're already pulling him into something sort of resembling a pitch relationship without ever explicitly discussing it, possibly without him even being aware of it. While there's a lot you can deny or justify to yourself, there are lines you have to draw.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--  
TG: i wasnt kidding about killing me  
CG: HA HA.  
CG: OH, I’M SORRY. WAS I NOT ABLE TO PROPERLY DISTINGUISH THE SUBTLE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE HIGHLY NUANCED HUMAN CONCEPTS OF “IRONY” AND “JOKING.” ALSO KNOW AS “FAKERY” AND “LYING IN A LIMP ATTEMPT AT HUMOR.”  
TG: yeah well your pisspoor knowledge of irony is well known  
TG: id be way more surprised if you had taken me seriously from the start  
CG: WHY WOULD YOU EVEN KID ABOUT ME KILLING YOU, ANYWAY?  
CG: DO YOU WANT ME TO TRY AND FAIL? IS THAT SERIOUSLY HOW YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL TIME NOW?  
CG: OK BAD TIME TO USE “KILL.”  
TG: k i dont really get the caliginous thing  
TG: but lets say i was interested  
TG: i dont give a shit how you interpret it  
TG: isnt it a thing youd do

You sit there in numbed shock, only now fully aware of how flushed your face feels, how wet your nook feels.

CG: THAT'S SERIOUSLY DISGUSTING. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND CALIGINOUS ROMANCE AT ALL.  
CG: IF KILLING ONE'S PARTNER WAS A DESIRABLE PART OF KISMESSITUDE, MOST TROLLS WOULD END UP DEAD SOONER RATHER THAN LATER FROM ROMANCE.  
CG: DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT THE POTENTIAL RAMIFICATIONS OF YOUR ABSURD ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT OTHER CULTURES?  
TG: im not talking about troll culture in general dumbass  
TG: im talking about you  
TG: and specifically that youre so desperate to get your hands on my pork sword that youd kill for it  
TG: literally  
TG: even kill me for it  
TG: thats basically what im offering  
CG: YOU'RE INSANE.  
TG: thats not a no  
TG: cause youre pretty nuts too you cant even deny that  
CG: PLEASE, I AM FAR MORE MENTALLY STABLE THAN YOU.  
TG: k you keep telling yourself that  
TG: just like you keep avoiding the question  
CG: WHICH IS FOLLOWING ME LIKE AN EAGER BARKBEAST, DEMANDING THAT I ANSWER ITS DESPERATE WHINING AND PLAY WITH IT.  
TG: is the dog supposed to be me or my dick  
TG: cause i am definitely not whining desperately  
CG: BUT YOU'RE BEING LED AROUND BY YOUR BULGE, WHICH IS TELLING YOU THAT YES, THIS IS A COMPLETELY REASONABLE THING TO ASK OF SOMEONE WHO MIGHT HAVE A PITCH INTEREST IN YOU.  
CG: WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU EVEN GET THE IDEA TO ASK ME?  
CG: THIS IS A BIT OF A DEPARTURE FROM YOUR USUAL MODUS OPERUNDI.  
TG: not important  
TG: so this is all an elaborate prelude to a yes right  
TG: youve gotta put on whole song n dance routine about eww i dont want this earth creatures hot hot man meat  
TG: but we both know thats a big fat lie  
CG: THE MORE YOU TALK, THE MORE I WANT TO JUST THROTTLE YOU.  
TG: hahaha  
CG: ... WHICH I GUESS FITS WELL HERE.  
CG: FUCK. FINE, I'LL TRY IT.  
CG: YOU'RE DISGUSTING, YOU KNOW THAT?  
TG: not half as gross as you dude  
CG: DO WE NEED TO, UH, NEGOTIATE ANYTHING?  
CG: OR CAN I LITERALLY JUST KILL YOU THE NEXT TIME WE FIGHT?  
TG: just kill me next time we fight  
TG: i can take it  
CG: OH DON'T YOU SOUND BADASS?  
CG: “OF COURSE I CAN TAKE GETTING KILLED. I'M A GOD AFTER ALL.”

In retrospect, you probably should have negotiated further rather than devolving into another inane argument with him.

The next time you two fight, you don’t pull any punches, physically or literally. If you ever had doubt about him egging you on, you were right. That was just him teasing. This, him grinding his crotch against your thigh, tearing at your clothing, slapping you in the face, is him egging you on.

You slam him against a wall, rip off his shades, and shove your hand against his throat, making him choke and sputter - or try to, really. The look of sudden horror on his face goes straight to your groin and you feel disgusted with yourself for how your bulge thickens immediately.

He fights, half-heartedly at first. Once he actually is in danger of losing consciousness, the color in his face darkens, he really starts to go at it, his dignity visibly decaying as he digs his blunt fingernails into your arms, kicks at you, tries to wrench his neck out of your grip. By then he’s lost much of his energy, however, and though you sustain more than a couple of bruises from it, you manage to keep hold.

Your shins ache from a particularly adept kick, and you can feel all the little marks you know his fingernails will leave on you; this isn't the first time you've had quintets of red-tinged half-crescents marring your arms, but this is probably the most severe they've ever been. You press yourself close against Dave, trying to restrain his waning attempts to fight. With one leg shoved between his, your own crotch pressed against his thigh, you can feel his erection and there's no way he doesn't feel yours. Your eyes go to his lips again and you give his throat a vicious squeeze to fight the equally strong urge to kiss him.

Lust coursing through your veins, you do give in a bit and reduce your grip to just one hand, ruthlessly digging your index finger and thumb into his arteries to compensate. You use the other hand to impulsively grab at the bottom of Dave's shirt, yanking it up so hard that you tear through the seam and nearly pull off a strip of the fabric. Dave gasps – or tries to – as you press your hand against his bared abdomen. You desperately want to move your hand down instead of up, but the feeling of the fine hairs of his stomach, the curves of his bottom pair of ribs, the smoothness of his skin, gives you plenty to focus on without needing to summon the courage to head for his genitals.

You want him so badly, but you're playing into his fantasy, and you have to _wait_ , you don't even know what you _should_ do, it pisses you off enough that you see red, as vivid as his obnoxious outfit. You press your fingernails into his throat and shudder with a hot surge of sadistic glee, desire, and disbelief that _you're going to kill him_ as you puncture his skin and feel his blood trickle out. Without even thinking about it, your other hand gets equally possessive, needy touches turning to raking against his skin, drawing lines parallel with his ribs, smearing blood haphazardly from your fingertips to your wrist as you grip him. Only now do you notice the tears beginning to run down his face, which shouldn't arouse you but fuck, they really do.

You didn't plan well, however; using your nails more efficiently on his neck makes you slack in actually putting pressure on his veins, and Dave starts to make choked, desperate sounds, regaining a little bit of breath. You curse and shove your palm against his windpipe, abandoning your blood-seeking to focus on asphyxiating him as forcefully and quickly as possible. His skin is so warm under your hand, his blood vessels pulsing desperately.

Dave's face contorts, like he's trying to make one last, choked sound but can't, and his eyes flutter shut. His cock is still hard against your leg and your nook aches, wondering what it would feel like for him to be inside of you, to envelop him. You don't loosen your grip, waiting for him to properly _die_ , but as his face turns an unpleasant color and all his limbs go slack, your arousal fades. The struggle invigorated you; his defeat is anticlimactic, if not a bit sickening. You're suddenly aware that he's only still up because of your hands on his throat.

A sick twist in your gut makes you pull away, not looking at the hideous bruises you left as he drops to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. You hope desperately that you did it right, that he'd dead and that this regeneration thing happens right away because as much as he should come back, and you _know_ he'll come back, it's still fucking unsettling to have him lying at your feet like this.

Much to your relief, almost immediately his body begins to glow, shimmering light swallowing his figure - his _corpse_. You can barely see his skin, but it looks like someone using the erase feature in Paint or Gamzee reapplying make-up. It's not like he's regenerating internally so much as having healing forced into him, wiping away all the marks you left. His face returns to its usual pale color and the bruises fade, until it looks like he's sleeping, not dead. Meanwhile, your hands still feel tacky, dirty from blood under your nails, a niggling detail that makes you twitch uncomfortably.

As the glow fades, Dave isn't only fully restored, but his clothes are back in order too – even his shades. His stupid god tier outfit shows no sign of your earlier attentions, which he apparently notices as he runs a hand over his torso even before he opens his eyes.

His hand rests at the waistband of his pants as his eyes flutter open, looking up at you from behind long, pale lashes. Despite being in perfect health, he somehow looks discombobulated, caught off-guard, _desperate_. You don't miss how quickly the tent in his pants grows even without him touching it.

"You fucking killed me," he marvels.

"Of course I fucking killed you," spills out of your mouth. There's no 'of course' about it, of course, but you're still enraptured by this all.

Dave's hand hovers over his crotch and he bites his lip. You catch the tiny tilt of his head and reach in to fumble with the waist of his pants. As soon as you do, he raises his hips and helps you rip his pants down. You don't bother getting them past his knees; your hand's on his cock and it's warm and _alive_ in your grasp. It doesn't move like yours does, but the skin is deceptively soft over its rigidity, veins and imperfections with more character than any slick bulge. A pearly droplet slips from the slit in the tip, and Dave brings a hand up to his mouth to ineffectually dampen a moan when you flick your thumb over it. His hips roll towards you desperately as you slide your slickened finger over the head of his bulge, rubbing gently.

"Killing me must've been hella weird," he breathes. It's not a question, but you know instantly from the longing in his eyes that it's an invitation.

You exhale, not quite able to articulate how killing him felt, but settle for the obvious. "Yeah and it's still fucking weird having your blood on my hands while I jerk you off. You're into it though, you freak?" Dave juts his hips out again and you know this angle is going to work just fine, so you continue. "Getting clawed and cut open and strangled wasn't enough?"

Impulsively, you pull your hand away and shove it against his mouth. He doesn't miss a beat, but licks your palm. You shudder slightly despite yourself, because it feels _good_ and your filthy mind (filthy? how is it filthy compared with what you just did?) instantly imagines that tongue on your nook instead.

As he sucks the blood off your skin, he reaches for his own dick again. You swat his hand away and switch, using your now-wet right palm to grasp him and letting him get to getting your left hand clean as well. Or at least a different sort of dirty.

Your own bulge is squirming impatiently in your pants, but you are far more interested in Dave. The cry that slips from his lips as you begin to stroke him in earnest, your hand gliding up and down his shaft easily, is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard from him. Then again, that's not particularly impressive, given how much you usually hate what comes out of his mouth.

“Mmmfuhh,” Dave mumbles with two of your fingers in his mouth. In a sadistic impulse, you shove the fingers deeper, making him gag. He retaliates by gripping your hip painfully hard, all the while rocking his hips slightly, encouraging you to keep touching him. He doesn't need to ask for you to figure out he needs it harder, so you tighten your grip.

He turns his face to the side, and you let your fingers slide out so that he can pant, his breath warm and unsteady as he exhales against your hand.

“Don't stop,” he demands, and as tempted as you are to do that, just to spite him, you honestly don't want to. You pump your hand, clutching his cock so hard that it must hurt, but if you haven't learned today that he's a masochist you don't know what the hell you do know.

“I wasn't going to, no thanks to your utterly unnecessary instructions,” you snap back.

“Karkat,” he says heavily. “Shut. Up. Also,” he adds, forcing you to shift a little closer by pulling on your hip, “I'm gonna come.”

“I figured that out,” you're saying right as he shouts, “ _Fuck,_ ” and shoots his thick genetic material out, all over your shirt, dripping down onto your hand.

You stiffen, your nook clenching momentarily as you imagine what it'd feel like if he'd done that inside of you, pinning him down with him still licking his blood off your hands. Dave clings to you, breathing heavily and avoiding your eyes as his climax quickly dissipates.

"Thanks," he says after a few long moments, steadying himself and releasing you to pull his pants back up.

"Uh, you're welcome," you reply, not really sure what else to say. You realize your blood pusher is still pounding and his ejaculate is still dripping down your shirt, but the shock of _yes, this just happened_ is sinking in. It's sinking in enough to paralyze you as Dave says, "See you around," and flees.


End file.
